Valentina's Lullaby
by scousemuz1k
Summary: Tony befriends a retired virtuoso, and gets lumbered with an enormous piano. The return of Lucy.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I imagine Tony's piano is a Baldwin, or a Yammy, but I happen to have a Kawai, an absolute growling beast, which I love, so in this story Tony's is too, because I can.**

**Scene setting this chapter, action later. Some OCs, two major, two minor, since this is a musical tale, and the return of Lucy.**

Valentina's Lullaby

By scousemuz1k

_When all the dust had settled, Tony reflected on how it had all started, and came to a conclusion he'd come to before. Several times during his long time as a law officer, in fact. _

_**The tiniest pebble can start an avalanche...**_

_If he hadn't looked up at the sky as he'd left work, seen the grey Fall light and anticipated the turning of the year, he wouldn't have chosen that evening to buy a new winter weight duvet along with his weekly grocery shop... If he hadn't been too busy to do that shop the previous week anyway, so that this time it had been a biggie... If he hadn't decided to carry everything up from the car in one go, a lazy man's load, as Sofia, the housekeeper on Long Island way back, used to admonish him... If he hadn't kicked the door shut behind him, and then not checked..._

NCISNCISNCIS

He was tired, and still slightly rattled, not just by the case, but by the trip round the mart, so he tossed the duvet through the bedroom door, still in its carry-bag, dumped all the groceries on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and reached for a carton of juice from the fridge. He stood in the kitchen doorway with the glass in his hand, gazing idly round the room and letting the day slough slowly off his shoulders, then on a whim, he went and sat at the piano.

At first he hadn't a clue what trickled out of his fingers, but after a while he found himself segueing through classic songs of the thirties and forties, some from movies, some, well, he couldn't remember where he'd first heard them... He played it again Sam; As Time Goes By, and straight into another one that always went straight to his gut, heart, whatever... These Foolish Things. After that he came to a halt, not knowing how to follow two all time favourites, and a lightly European accented voice spoke behind him.

"That was good, Anthony. That era suits your style."

Tony turned in surprise. "Mr Welensky! I didn't know you were there..." He rose, embarrassed, to face his neighbour, who stood in the doorway, in his overcoat.

"You don't usually leave your door open my boy – I sometimes hear you playing, but never so clearly before. I hope you don't mind a passer-by stopping to listen."

"Well... no... of course not... I mean, I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"You didn't," the old man said, still on the threshold. "I wanted to listen." He nodded at the piano. "A fine instrument you have. In the old days I would have said no... don't get a baby grand, they're too short for the bass strings to produce any depth, but technology has advanced since I was young..." He chuckled. "It's had plenty of time."

Tony hesitated, and hoped it wasn't noticed. He'd wanted to chill, he _hadn't_ wanted company, but hey... "Why don't you come in, Mr W? Take your coat off? Is your lock still giving you trouble?"

"Not at all, since you fixed it, Anthony," the elderly man said, stepping shyly into the room. "Sam came up later and said he couldn't have done it better himself."

Tony grinned. "Hey, don't go telling the building super I've been doing his job! I'll be in big trouble if I get it wrong! So, are you just going out, or just getting back? Oh... it's Thursday. You've been to see Valentina. Are you cold? Would you like some tea? Or coffee?" Now he knew why Mr W was hovering.

"Oh, Anthony, that would be lovely... a nice cup of tea. Yes, I took flowers... I never miss. She'd have liked your playing. She was far more into the modern style than I was – my parents, you see. They wanted me to study the classics, the classics alone."

"She was a pianist? And you are? Mr W, you never told me that!"

"Was, Anthony, was..." The old man regarded his gnarled hands ruefully. He looked at the shiny black Kawai, and asked diffidently, "May I?"

"Of course you can, Mr W. I'll put the kettle on and listen."

Mr Welensky wagged a finger as he moved slowly to the piano. "Danilo, Anthony, or Daniel if you like. _Mr W – _it's as big a mouthful as the whole name."

Tony grinned. "Ok... long as you don't think it's disrespectful! Hey, and how long have I been asking you to call me Tony?"

"You have, a while now... an old man forgets. My family came from the Ukraine, and we would have said Anton." He smiled gently. "I'll try, Tony!"

He looked solemnly at the brilliant white keys, and began to play a few chords, familiarising himself with the Kawai's touch, then he began to play, and Tony, with the kettle in his hand, stopped dead.

Chopin... the Raindrop Prelude...

Never mind that some of the ornaments had to slow down, and the fortissimos weren't quite as loud as they should be; the composer and the pianist were in total accord. Masterful... heartbreaking. Tony put the kettle down and just listened. And listened...

When the piece came to an end, the old man's hands dropped from the keyboard and he sat with a contemplative expression on his face. Tony wanted to say something flip like, 'It doesn't sound like that when I play it', but he didn't want to break the silence. One hand automatically reached out to switch the kettle on, but he stayed silent.

Danilo finally said, "Yes, a lovely instrument, Tony. We old ones should not dismiss the young too easily."

Tony finally spoke. "My mother was a fine pianist; my first teacher. She didn't have what you have. You were... are... a _great_ pianist. Danilo, were you a concert pianist?"

The older man's eyes grew distant, and that gentle smile remained. "I was Ivan Wolinsky," he said, without ego, pronouncing it Ee-_vahn _in the Russian way, "until age and rheumatic problems took him away from me. No – " he held up a hand as Tony opened his mouth to sympathise, "it was time. I had a good life as a performer, and I have no regrets now; except for losing my inspiration, my Valentina of course."

Tony nodded silently, stunned; one of the best was sitting at his piano; referred to in hushed tones in the same breath as Alfred Cortot and Vladimir Horowitz. "I never knew... you never said a word!"

Danilo smiled again. "I left him behind... that life was gone, and I settled down to happy retirement! I didn't want reminders, I just wanted to spend more time with my wife, so we moved out of New York, took to using the Polish way of spelling our name, used my second name – Valia liked it better anyway – and we were happy. For almost ten years... Now," he laughed to soften the words, "I'm just a lonely old man who inveigles his way in to play a young friend's piano."

The fed in Tony stored that away for future reference; he could understand the desire of a famous person, especially one who now no longer had the virtuosity that had brought that fame, to regain anonymity, but something in the maestro's tone said there was more. The kettle switched itself off, and Tony said, "Play something else, while I make the tea?"

"Do you like Debussy?" An Arabesque followed, and Tony almost forgot to get the tin of cookies out, as a butterfly seemed to flicker round his apartment. As he carried the mugs and the plate of choc-chips into the living room, Danilo began to play something else. It was a simple, light tune in four time, with a very Slavic, or Russian feel to it, and a bass line like a wave rising and falling. Borodin? Er... Prokofiev? He couldn't place it at all, and wondered why he'd never heard it before. It was ethereal, hypnotising, like a lullaby... he thought of Lucy, whom he hadn't seen in three weeks.

Mr Welensky smiled at his expression. "No, Tony, you haven't heard it before. Few people have."

"It's beautiful. Tell me about it." He gestured towards the contents of the coffee table, and the easy chairs.

The old man came across and sat down with that measured, slow care he took over everything. "Do you really want to know? Of course you do. I've never known you to say something you didn't mean. Oh, except when I locked myself _inside _my apartment, and you climbed off the fire escape and in through my window to help me. You said it was no trouble."

"It wasn't!"

"And you said you weren't laughing."

"Well – I was _trying_ not to! Have a cookie, and tell me about the tune."

"Ah, the tune... It was written in 1932, in Kyiv, by Valentina's mother, when she was expecting her. She used to sing it to her bump, and then to Valia, many, many times through her life. Right until Irina died, in fact. She didn't give it a name until Valia was born, and then it became Valentina's Lullaby."

"Does it have words?"

"In Ukrainian... it's about a little bird coming safely home to its nest before the storm comes. The storm _was _coming, you see, all over Europe. Irina was a singer with the Kyiv opera, a wonderful singer... Her family were all musicians. Mine were jewellers – do you know they had supplied many of the gems, and the precious metals for Faberge's eggs? We weren't poor; it was certainly quite easy for us to pack up and come to America before the storm broke on us all – we're Jews, and we all knew what we were in for if we stayed. Irina and my mother were friends, and my family helped theirs; I was a babe in arms, and they never talked about it much, but I believe they helped many others."

He laughed. "We all settled down in a Ukrainian enclave in New York, and certainly my mother and father were well liked there. We brought our piano over with us, and there were many friendly evenings spent around it. I only ever spoke English at school until I was about twelve! Valia taught me to play her lullaby when she was six and I was seven, and I was smitten with her and the whole idea of being a pianist. I never got over either smiting!

"We thought one day we might teach it to our children, but at first we were too busy haring round the world on concert tours. I never wanted to leave Valia behind, and she never would have stayed! Then when we slowed down, it simply never happened. It's a regret..."

The longing in his voice was painful, and Tony said quietly, "I have a god-daughter, Lucy, not quite one year old; I think she's as close to a child of my own as I'll ever get."

"Was there never a Valentina in your life?"

"I've been close a couple of times... my job makes it difficult."

Danilo nodded wisely, hearing the finality in his younger friend's tone. "The lullaby has never been written down, or given to anyone. But I'll teach it to you for Lucy if you'd like that."

For the second time that evening, Tony's eyes widened in surprise. "Mr W! I've done nothing to deserve that!"

"Does Lucy deserve it? Oh... I can see she does. You've gone all _sentymental'nyy_, for a grown man. Tony, you only met Valia a few times..."

The other man nodded; when he'd moved into the apartment Valentina Welenska had already been very ill. He'd helped as best he could.

"But she was an excellent judge of character. She liked you; that's all there is to it."

"Thank you," was all Tony could think of to say.

NCISNCISNCIS

It was getting on for midnight; Tony was loading the dishwasher and thinking about relaxing over some nice cold cases tomorrow, always assuming they didn't catch a hot one; and maybe a free weekend so he could go on up to Sandybacks and show Lucy her new tune, if he could adapt it for guitar. He should be asking Polly about a suitable birthday present too...

It hadn't taken long to learn the tune; his ear was quick for melody, and he'd written the chord sequence on the back of an envelope, complete with inversions, and his own code for block chords or arpeggios. Playing guitar was a big help when you had to think in harmony sequences.

He'd ended up cooking; it seemed like a good idea to thank the old maestro for giving him such a unique gift, and anyway, Danilo's stories of life on tour were funny, and by the end of the evening he was clearly lifted out of the melancholy that visiting his wife's grave had left him in.

DiNozzo-the-fed was very active right now, even though common sense was telling him to shut his brain down and go to bed. There were many intriguing points to ponder in Ivan Wolinsky's story, not least the gaps – the things he _hadn't_ said.

Tony had been inside the old man's apartment a few times, and it was neat and clean and taken pride in, with good furniture and a warm style. But although there was a large, German looking piano against one wall, and a cabinet that might have held music, there was nothing to suggest the home of someone who must have been one of the highest paid musicians in Europe in his time.

No children, or grandchildren to lavish money on; no suggestion that it was being lavished anywhere in fact, so either Danilo was sitting on a fat bank balance somewhere, or there wasn't one, and what you saw was what you got. Add to that the way that whenever the subject of family was touched on, the old pianist steered it firmly away again, and Tony found himself wishing that he'd known his neighbour before he'd come to DC, to become anonymous. To disappear?

Maybe he'd been an investigator for so long he saw mysteries where there were none, but there was something off here. He'd switched his laptop on, meaning to do a spot of weeding in his inbox before he turned in for the night; he shook his head, shut it down again and headed off to his bedroom.

NCISNCISNCIS

A busy week went by; he'd skyped the Hastings family but still hadn't had time to visit, and it wasn't until the following Thursday that he thought about the Wolinsky mystery again. He arrived home as it was already getting dark, and saw Danilo's tiny Fiat in its parking slot. His neighbour had told him some time ago that he didn't like driving after dark any more. "The lights dazzle me," he'd said. "I'm eighty-one, it's a miracle they still let me drive at all."

He was turning his key in the lock when the old man's voice said tentatively, "Tony, I've made coffee. Do you have a minute to spare?"

"Sure. Let me just put the ice-cream in the freezer." Mr W smiled and stepped back into his own doorway, and a few minutes later, Tony joined him. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"A big favour, Tony."

"Of course, if I can. How big?"

Danilo pointed towards his big, solid piano, and said, "_That_ big."

Tony grinned. "Hey, it's not too big for a DiNozzo to move. Where do you want it?"

"It's more than that, Tony. I want you to take it."

"But –"

"Yes, I know you have a piano already. And I know it couldn't stay in your apartment for long, it's too big. But I want you to take ownership of it, and decide what to do with it."

His tone was so earnest Tony couldn't deny him. He decided instantly, even though it meant he was going to have, almost literally, an elephant in the room. His bedroom, to be precise. There was just about space along one wall, as long as he didn't expect to get into bed from that side. "OK, I'll do it. If you explain why. Is it a deal?"

"It's a deal. Valentina told me to do it."

He poured coffee from a large pot into bright red mugs, and told his story. His parents had helped other family members, and many poorer people to get to America and settle, and at first that was good. Families were grateful, and although it was never accepted, some made attempts to pay back the money they'd been 'lent'.

Not everyone was grateful, and not everyone was satisfied with what they were given. It wasn't until Ivan and Valentina returned to New York from one long tour of the USA and Canada to discover that his father had had a heart attack, that the whole picture emerged. His parents were ageing, and unable to resist the continual demands for help that amounted to extortion. Their workers were afraid and had left the business, (some with pockets full of the stock, worth hundreds of thousands;) it had foundered and the elderly couple were in severe financial difficulties.

"My father's health bill was mounting, so of course I paid it. I got them out of the area, to DC, and paid off all their legal debts. Papa's health never really recovered, he was broken by how he'd been treated by those he tried to help. I've often wished to catch up with a few of them... He died fifteen years ago. It was around then that I decided to retire; my hands weren't up to it anymore, so Valia and I moved into this apartment with Mama."

Tony didn't need to resist the urge to feel smug; he'd known there was a mystery, but the solving of it left him feeling hurt and angry on behalf of good people, harmed by heartless bad ones.

"You're wondering about the piano," Danilo went on. "My mother used to play it; so did I from time to time, it was the instrument of my childhood... it's a very good piano, or was, but it's suffered from hard work and too many moves... it needs some restoration work, and if I could afford it I probably still wouldn't have it done because I play so seldom. It reminds me of them... Mama loved it, and made me swear I'd never sell it, and always look after it. 'It's special, Vanya... it's part of our history... it's like our photographs... precious...' anyway, she made me swear never to part with it. But I can't keep it, I've no heirs... Valentina suggested you as a compromise."

"Do you always ask her advice?"

"Always." He tapped his temple. "She speaks such good sense to me in here."

Tony nodded gravely. "She didn't mention Lucy by any chance?"

The virtuoso laughed and smacked his hands together. "Ha. She may have done... you're a smart one, Tony. Do you think..."

"Ten minutes ago I didn't know what to get for Lucy's birthday. I'll buy it, Danilo... never let it be said I scrounged a present for my god-daughter."

He half expected Mr W to say no, but he agreed almost eagerly. "That would be an excellent way to do it; I'll give you a bill of sale. Twenty dollars."

"Come on, Danilo, times ten. Two hundred."

"One hundred."

Tony huffed. "Done. You drive a hard bargain... But why is it important? Why now?"

The old man sighed. "I said you were a smart one, Tony. This morning... I got a phone call. I said 'Hello?' A man's voice said, 'Is that Mr Ivan Wolinsky?' Ukrainian pronunciation. I told him there was no-one here of that name, but I didn't think to disguise my accent. He hung up. I'm afraid that part of my life's about to return. I don't want them smashing up my old piano while they look for jewellery I haven't got."

Tony shook his head. "Danilo, I'm more concerned about you! We'll have to see Sam about bumping up your security. We'll have to look after you." He thought for a moment. "Right, you write that bill of sale out, while I make a phone-call... McGee? You back home? Course I want something... but there's beer and pizza in it for you... my place... yes, now."

It took Tim less than fifteen minutes to get there, but Tony had already paid for the piano, stored the bill safely, borrowed some tough hessian matting from Sam so that nobody's lovely woodblock flooring got gouged, and ordered the pizza.

"Hi Tony... hello Mr W – so how am I supposed to earn this beer?"

He paled slightly as Tony pointed to the big Edwardian piano. "You and me, McMuscles, are going to move an elephant."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Since this has to do with Lucy being one year old, it takes place in my personal canon somewhere around the same time as 'Oonagh's Faith', when Tony and Tim were establishing a firm friendship. **

**Also... for the first time ever, well, let's call her a Mary, because she's not perfect, and she's not going to have a romance with Tony, so she can't be an out and out Mary Sue. But yeah, she's based on me when I was a single mother with two young teenagers who seemed to think my pockets were as bottomless as their more wealthy friends' parents. And yes, I did rebuild pianos.**

**Do you say halvied in the US? For a pizza of two halves? And did you know that over here a pizza in its box is a scouse laptop? (Us scousers are generally considered to be too dim to handle IT, and driven by our stomachs...)**

**Thank you to klcozad and the other unsigned guest for your kind messages!**

Valentina's Lullaby

Chapter 2

The elephant proved to be tractable; docile even. It slid over the hessian on its big, brass casters, with Tim pushing, Tony pulling, and Mr W picking up pieces of matting as they were rolled off, and re-laying them in front. "Like Egyptians building the pyramids," he said.

"Gnnnmph..." Tony said, "I was thinking more of Right Said Fred."

"Eh?" Tim asked incredulously. "You're –" gasp – "too sexy?"

"Not the _band_, Mcpushabitharderdamnit, the _song_. The song the band was named after. Three guys trying to ssssshift – phewww... a piano; they drink tea, demolish half the house, leave one of them under a pile of rubble, the piano where it is, and go home. Nnnnff..."

Tim shrugged, pushed harder, DiNozzo going in reverse at the other end hauled, and the piano slid gracefully into position alongside Tony's bed. Tim was sure he could hear his friend's sleek, black beauty dancing angrily on its three slim, glossy legs, snapping its lid and fall-board, and hissing with jealousy in the living room. _So... that old thing gets to sleep with him... _

"McGee? _McGee?" _

"Mmmm, sorry, what?"

"What are you grinning about?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

Tony gave him a '_you know I'll find out in the end' _sort of glare, but didn't push. Abby'd find out for him.

They drank tea, (we have to, it's like the song, Tony said,) and after he'd shown them some of his photos, himself and Valentina playing duets as children, and then again as husband and wife, Mr W pleaded the late hour and tiredness, and went back to his own apartment, while Tony put a store pizza with his own additions in the oven, and pulled two cans out of the fridge. Tim leaned against the edge of the kitchen island, and said thoughtfully, "There's a story here."

Tony threw him a can, and moved towards the living room. "Best told sitting with a beer. Truth is, I'm worried about the old guy..."

With impeccable timing, the buzzer signalled the pizza's readiness just as he neared the end of his story, and he went to fetch it before continuing, leaving Tim to think it through. He returned a few moments later with the pie sliced in half and then into wedges. There was a spicy dip for the crusts, and no girly things like side salad. Tim's eyebrows went up, then he grinned. "You've halvied it."

"I know you're not keen on pepperoni. And I think mushrooms are devil spawn. Each to his own. So..." he raised his eyebrows and waited for Tim's opinion.

"Kay... first of all, you've already got a piano, but you just bought one. From _Ivan Wolinsky. _Who lives in your apartment block."

"I didn't know... And it's for Lucy."

"Ah," Tim said. That explained a lot. He gestured with a wedge of pizza. "Why now? He's lived here for almost fifteen years. Why would they be trying to find him now? Whoever they are?"

Tony smiled. "Well, there's the thing, McSleuth. Very sharp of you." Tim looked up to heaven. "Sharp? Geddit? Huh, that fell a bit flat. O-Kay... Who? Someone who wants more than he got fifteen... twenty years ago... or it could go all the way back to when they first arrived as immigrants, when Danilo was a babe in arms! Why now? Some trigger... we're guessing. I'm guessing. Older relatives talking to younger ones about how they escaped from their homeland... a boy gives a girl an engagement ring that's 'been in the family', someone in _her_ family remembers the elderly jewellers who went broke, and whose son came and took them away... I have no idea. If they're thinking he has to still be rich because he paid off the old folk's debts, they'll be disappointed. He has royalties from recordings, and what was left, which isn't much. Don't know how they tracked him down either, although _you_ could do it in five minutes..."

"But the threat's real. Disappointed could equal vicious. What are we going to do?"

Tony's eyebrows went up, then he grinned. "Dealing yourself in... Don't know why I'm – no, I'm _not _surprised." He thought for a moment. "He's safe enough while I'm in the building; but how often is that? And he can't stay cooped up all day... I guess tomorrow I'll suggest..."

He began to check ideas off on his fingers, and when he paused Tim said, "We should talk to Kath," and Tony grinned again. "It's the pizza," he said delightedly. "Nah," he added seriously, "you're right. We can have the whole of Metro looking out for Mr W, Gibbs'll be happy to have an excuse to see the Lieutenant, and he'll maybe cut us some slack if we need to sneak off and push a piano."

"We have to do it again?" Tim's voice rose a good octave.

Tony apologetically passed him another can. "Well, it has to go up to the Hastings place..."

NCISNCISNCIS

"_It looks perfect for here, Tony."_

"_Are you sure, Pol? D'you get the scale of it from the photo?" _

_Polly chuckled. "Size is no problem, you know there's room. We've been calling that wall opposite the window 'the piano spot' for months. And the style's exactly right for our other furniture... Tony, it'll be great. Really. Wait till I tell Patch. Hey, I'm going to call him now..."_

He was delighted that he'd pleased Polly so much. Now, he just had to find what he'd let himself in for in terms of restoration. He hadn't played it... for some reason he didn't want Danilo to hear him. His piano yes, Ivan Wolinsky's, for some reason, no. He realised as he sat at his desk the next morning, feeling jittery and uneasy, that he hadn't even lifted the fall. He knew the instrument was a Bosendorfer, one of the great European makers; bought in Vienna by Ivan's father, who was on a business trip, on the day he received news of his son's birth, and brought back by lorry through Hungary. Its romantic history went straight to Polly's poetic heart. It was, like all the best upright pianos, overstrung, and underdamped. Mr W had been impressed that Tony knew what both terms meant. Tony had preened exaggeratedly.

He was feeling belated guilt at taking the instrument; tired or not, it was worth a lot more than what he'd paid, but the old man had known that and been adamant anyhow. He realised that it wasn't the piano that was really the source of his disquiet – he really hoped they'd get a free weekend so he could spend a lot more time figuring out how to best protect his friend. The best way, as he'd said to Kath, was to find out who the voice on the phone was, and if he was really a threat. Oh, and then to stop him. He shifted in his seat, and tried to concentrate.

"Something bothering ya, DiNozzo?"

Tony read the tone of Gibbs' voice accurately, hit minimise on his screen to hide the search for an expert in piano restoration that he'd been looking at instead of his cold case, and looked up. "Yeah, Boss... I guess Kath's been in touch?"

Gibbs' lips twitched slightly as he suppressed a smile. "Seems ya want her to mobilise the entire Metro PD to protect one elderly neighbour?"

"Well... half'll do, Boss. Did she tell you the whole story?"

"Kinda. Why didn't _you_ tell me?"

"Was going to – I was waiting until we finished for the day... if we didn't pull a case. I'm kind of hoping for a free weekend, to do something about it myself."

"Tell me now," Gibbs said pleasantly enough, and Tony kept the '_thanks, Kath'_ grin off his own face, as he explained the situation, aware that Tim, who knew the story, and Ziva who didn't, but had picked up at once on the Jewish element in it, had both stopped to listen. The Marine's face darkened as his own had done, at the thought of what had happened to good, well-meaning people, at the hands of the greedy and ungrateful. "Take the rest of the day," he said finally. "Go see what you can do – best to do it now. Take the time to find a piano fixer too... best do that now too. We may get a free weekend, we may not. And call us if you need anything. I'll call you if you're needed here." He actually smiled. "And tell Kath I'll be seeing her. "

_Us... _Tony was having real trouble by now not to grin like a melon. He loved it when the whole team solidified behind one member – whether it was NCIS's business or not.

Tim said, "If you want me to come over when we finish up here, let me know."

Ziva said, "Have you found a restorer here in DC?"

Tony paused alongside her desk. "No... I haven't, why? Do you know of one?"

"No... but Jimmy Palmer might." Tony nodded, did grin like a cantaloupe, sketched a salute and headed for the elevator.

NCISNCISNCIS

"_There's only one I've heard of," _Jimmy had said_. "People have old pianos, they let them fall apart, then smash them up. If children want to learn, and money's not a problem, Mom and Dad go out and buy a new one. If it is, they usually sign up for a lease/buy later agreement, until the child proves keen, or, more likely, gives up."_

"_How d'you know so much about it?" _Tony had wondered.

"_Oh, the same way I learned to tune them," _Palmer said blithely_. "Every teenager has to earn their college money somehow. I worked for the owner of a music store. I learned a lot from Dan. Good old pianos are worth restoring, but not many people want to pay for it." _Tony sighed, that sounded ominous. Jimmy smiled. "_If you've got a Bosendorfer, Tony, believe me, it's worth it. Leigh Livingstone Pianos... warehouse unit out by the Amtrak yards by New York Avenue. Dan never said anything bad about them."_

The satnav brought him to the right place, and he winced as a Forty-Four clattered by just as he got out of the car. Not only ear-blasting, but ground-shaking too. He caught the grin of an Amtrak cop sitting in his kiosk at the edge of the yard, and grinned back. He looked at the various cameras hung around the area, and figured his car would be safe enough.

A middle-aged but well cared for, high-bodied black van stood outside the unit, with white letters elongated like piano keys: Leigh Livingstone, acoustic piano restoration. The same design was on the modest sign board over the double door. Bursting with curiosity, Tony went inside.

Apart from a small kitchenette and bathroom to one side, and an equally small counter between the instruments and the public, there was just the one room, about twenty feet square, but what a room it was. Three upright pianos stood in the centre, well spaced apart, in various states of repair. A boudoir grand was further back. Every available inch of wall was hung with a salvaged keyboard, action or frame; there were bunches of casters, bundles of legs, strings, piano wire and hinges, and things Tony couldn't guess at. On one wall, the huge, wing-shaped lid of a long gone concert grand was fixed, forming the base for racks of shelving, with screws, springs, lock plates, rolls of felt in different colours, and tools, only a few of which he recognised. Beside it a workbench held clamps, and a simmering glue pot.

As he gazed around in happy curiosity, he became aware of a voice, coming from the kitchenette.

"... I know, sweetie, but you know the first thing to do is speak to your dad. I'll do everything I can... calm down... do they want the money all at once? Guess I could do it in instalments... I know you'd need the clothes as well, but we'd have to see what we could borrow, or hire... hon, you know I can't go down the brand new road." A tall woman in her mid thirties came out of the side room, with a phone held a few inches from her ear. She wore jeans, steel capped boots and a fisherman's smock with the pockets full of implements, and her long hair was caught up carelessly at the back of her head in a spring-loaded comb. "We can make you look as good as your friends without spending the sort of money they spend... well, that's up to you... Clara, don't push me." She looked apologetically at Tony, and almost barked into the phone, "Look, hon, I have a visitor. We'll talk about it when we get home. Bye."

It was clear, as she put the phone back on its cradle, that she was restraining herself from smashing it down. "Sorry," she said in embarrassment. "My daughter. Wants to go to Kandersteg on a school ski-ing trip. I agree to one thing and she just ups the ante. She doesn't realise..."

"How old is she?" Tony asked, in his most relaxing and reasonable voice.

The dark-haired woman shot him a look from dark brown eyes, and he thought maybe she knew what he was doing. She nodded ruefully in acknowledgement, and said more calmly, "Fourteen. She knows we're not that well off, it's just hard for her to accept, when her friends have so much more. And what we have has to be shared, her brother's into cycle racing... has to compete with kids with better equipment. Sorry... why am I telling you..." She stuck a hand out. "I'm Leigh, how can I help you?"

"Tony DiNozzo... I bought a Bosendorfer from a retired concert pianist... I need to know what to do with it."

Leigh Livingstone's eyes widened. "OK, I'm hooked," she said. "Tell me more."

Tony had an idea. "If you're not too busy," he said, "I could show you."

He pulled his badge from his belt, about to assure her of his harmlessness and good intentions, but she laughed. "S'all right," she said. "I've already spotted it. And the gun. Which agency?"

"NCIS."

"Right... the Navy Yard. My ex is a sailor – not Navy though. First Officer on a cruise liner..." her mouth twisted slightly, and Tony risked a comment.

"Girl in every port, huh?"

She laughed again, but bitterly. "Try on every deck of the bloody ship. Dammitall, why am I _telling_ you... come on, I'll follow you in the van."

"Leave the van, I really need to get there to fix up some security for Danilo. I'll explain as I drive. I'll bring you back again." He pointed to the Mustang, and she smiled.

"Just let me lock up." And as she turned away from him to put the key in the slot, she raised a surprised eyebrow, and reflected that for someone who'd acquired a thorough distrust of handsome, charming men over the last fifteen years, she'd made up her mind with really quite unseemly haste.

NCISNCISNCIS

Two figures in hoodies ran out of the entrance of Tony's apartment block, just as Sam the super returned from a trip to the hardware store, almost knocking him over. They raced round the corner to a waiting vehicle, breathless with adrenalin and anger.

"Nothing, damn it, _nothing_! Three months of trawling through phone books, three months of putting up with talking to senile old loons from the _old country_, listening to their sentimental drivel and getting nothing..."

"Calm down, Greg, we're not finished yet –"

"Idiot! What else is there? Three months of nothing, and then Uncle says, 'well, try another spelling'... why didn't _he _think of that earlier? And we finally_, finally_ find the old fool, and there's _nothing there_!"

"Gregor, there has to be. Uncle's sure. Everything he remembers... all the family used to say that Grandfather Olek had something hidden for 'a rainy day' – "

"Then why didn't he use it?" He slammed the truck into drive. "You're an idiot, Vasyl... you believe anything people tell you... and we drive all the way from New York in a truck with New York plates..."

The older youth regarded his brother sourly. "A _stolen_ truck with New York plates... which the bakery won't even miss until tomorrow... we'll steal something else if you're bothered that much. To answer your question – he had a stroke, remember? Then another one... he probably forgot what he'd done, or where he'd put it. It has to be jewellery... that's what they did..."

"And Uncle Ivan, who took them away – a bloody musician – what would he know about that? I told you he wouldn't, and he didn't –"

"And if you hadn't –" A glare from Gregor made him change the subject. "OK, let's change cars and think of something else. We sure as hell can't go back to Uncle without something, not with what we owe him. Calm down. Let's think."

NCISNCISNCIS

Leigh listened carefully, while Tony told the story of the Bosendorfer as he drove. Her reaction was much the same as Tims. "Ivan Wolinsky. Who lives in your apartment building."

"Right opposite me in fact."

"And needs protecting. I'll never say a word, promise. I'd love to meet him if I can... Anyway, the piano was bought new in 1931. Tony, do you _really_ understand just what you've got there?"

"Kind of. I know that in good condition it's worth a lot more than I paid –"

"A lotta lot."

"Well, yes... I guess... Danilo knows, but like I said, he insisted. I can always give him more, but it'll be a battle."

"I understand. The thing I can tell you, from my limited experience of them, is that even in a worn condition they're incredible pianos – they don't wear out, you see. I doubt it'll take much to put right because nothing much will have gone _wrong_. And the firm's always built more grands, so an upright from that era has a rarity value as well – I sound a right know-it-all, don't I – but I'm getting quite excited about seeing –" she broke off as Tony's cell phone shrilled.

"_Tony? Sam. Where are you?"_

"On my way over. What's wrong?"

"_Look, I'm sorry, Tony... I said I'd keep an eye on him... I only went to the store to get a better deadbolt for him..."_

"You mean Mr W? What happened?"

"_Someone attacked him..."_

Tony floored the accelerator. "Mr W?" Leigh asked anxiously.

"Yes. Did you hear?" She just nodded, with the rather wide eyed look he'd seen before.

"I should have come straight back... gone to see you later..."

"Didn't you say you weren't expecting to have the morning off at all?"

"Yeah..."

They didn't speak again until they screeched to a halt outside the building. Kath's Sergeant, Roy Fordham was already there, as was an ambulance. They pounded up the stairs.

"You should wait in the car," Tony yelled over his shoulder.

"I'm coming with you," the woman he'd only met twenty minutes ago yelled back. He was too worried about Danilo to argue, until they stood in the doorway of Ivan Wolinsky's trashed apartment.

The furniture was toppled and smashed; the music from the cabinet thrown around in chaos. Two paramedics knelt by Danilo, carefully putting a neck brace on him. The old man's face was bloody and broken; he lay silent, shrunken and diminished, and all around him, his cherished photo albums lay ripped, scattered and trodden down.

**AN: I was never that feisty...**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Huge chapter, just couldn't find a place to stop. Only read through once, apologies for any mistakes.**

Valentina'sLullaby

Chapter 3

The piano expert took a step back instinctively, not just because of the horror she felt, but because this was police business not hers. However, she stayed at the threshold as Tony hurried into the room.

"How is he?"

"Are you a relative, Sir?"

"No. He has none... I'm his neighbour, a friend, a _fed_, and I know more about him than anyone else around. _How is he_?"

The paramedic appeared unfussed. "Concussed, as you might expect." He was trained to deal with people's anger, _'remember the victims aren't the only victims,'_ his instructor would say, but he vibrated with his own suppressed rage as he continued, "All the blows seem to have been to his face; we've found no other injuries so far, except for his knuckles. We'll know more when we get him to hospital, of course. Do you know how old he is? And how his general health is?"

Tony sensed the other man's effort, and calmed himself in response. "He's robust and strong for an eighty-one year old." He gripped the old man's hand. "Mr W... I shouldn't have left you..."

Danilo didn't open his eyes, but he spoke weakly. "Not your fault... not Sam's..." then he fell silent again, drifting back into unconsciousness.

"That's good," the EMT said comfortingly, but Tony was too furious to acknowledge it with more than a grateful nod. He stood up and went back to Leigh, who looked at him intensely.

"Me and my big mouth," she said bitterly. "I said I wanted to meet him. Look what I got. How selfish is that? It's like I wished it on him. Who'd do that to an old man?"

"Plenty of people," DiNozzo said harshly. "I'll find out who."

Roy Fordham spoke at his elbow. "Uh-uh. Our case, Tony."

"But –"

The sergeant put his hand soothingly on his colleague's shoulder. "You concentrate on the victim. Stay with him. Let us have his statement when you can. We'll get the dirtbags, without killing them."

Tony nodded, slowly and reluctantly, forced to acknowledge that the Metro officer was right. "Dirtbags plural?"

"Two, the super says. He saw them running away. Didn't chase them because he was worried about Mr Welensky. After what you'd said, he guessed it was him they'd been after. He ran up here, found the door kicked in, called for help. Blames himself – like someone else I know." He glanced at Leigh. "Some two. Not your faults, or his."

The fed grimaced. "Kay..." he said finally. "Just..."

"Yes, we'll keep you read in. That's a given, Tony."

"I know... was going to say, take care of the photos... you'll have to process them, but they're important to him, you know? Let me know when you're done, I'll take care of the apartment."

Roy smiled briefly. "Sure," he said, and went back to his work.

Leigh said quietly, "Glad he's doing it. You'd kill them."

"Not really... but I feel like it."

"So do I."

"Look, Leigh..."

"I know. You need to go to the hospital. Get gone. I'll get a cab back; you can call me when you're ready, and I'll come and look the piano over then."

"I'm sorry. I'll fix you up with a lift back from Metro, though. Thanks for –"

"Tony!" A familiar voice called to him from the elevator.

"McGee..." Tim hurried over, and took a long, angry look through the door to the scene beyond.

"Kath called Gibbs. He sent me." That was all he really needed to say, and he waited, trying to read his friend's mood to anticipate what he should do next.

Tony nodded, thought for a moment, and made up his mind. "Glad you're here. Seriously. Go with him, right? Go with the ambulance, keep him safe in the hospital until I get there. You were right – disappointed did equal vicious."

"Isn't it nice to be right," Tim bit out. "And they'll try again?"

"You won't give them the chance. Get Zee if you need cover. Mr W knows you... Look after him, Tim. I won't be long."

The younger agent accepted the responsibility without fuss or doubt, and as he went off with the paramedics and their patient, Tony turned back to Leigh. "This was going to be fun," he said bitterly, pulling his front door key from his pocket. "Come and look anyway, then I'll take you back, and go to the hospital."

Leigh almost offered to go with him, but stopped herself just in time. She'd just observed three LEOs interacting in a totally competent way, understanding their own and each other's roles as if mayhem like this was the norm, and simply to be dealt with; she guessed that for them it was. They were a unique breed, none more so than this man, and just because something about him drew her like an opposite pole, she wasn't stupid enough to try to crash her way into his life, for no better reason than that by comparison, hers was humdrum. And how dare she even be thinking like this when a defenceless elderly man, a God-given talent like few others, had just been beaten senseless?

Tony caught the anger in her body language as she stalked across the landing beside him, and thought it must be for Danilo. He pushed his front door open, and stepped aside like a gentleman, for her to enter. Leigh paused and looked for a moment at the elegant Kawai, recalling that he'd mentioned he already had a piano of his own, and found a smile. "Good choice," she said. Tony smiled slightly, pushed the bedroom door open, and again, stepped aside. His guest took one step, stopped, and said softly, "My... godfathers."

NCISNCISNCIS

The heavy-set man who stood staring out of the window of his office, listening to the voice coming from the phone speaker, trying to contain his rage and not smash the thing, called himself Peter Rawlins. His sister Ilka would shake her head, tell him he was still a Wolinsky and still call him Petro, but she was the only one allowed to do that. He called his own son Andy, not Andrii, and his useless nephews, the cause of his rage just now, Greg and Vaz, in his desire to forget everything to do with the 'old country'. Thinking about it, he always put in the sarcastic quote marks in his mind.

The only thing he _was_ interested in from the g'ddam 'old country', was Grandfather Olek's nest-egg. He cursed the day Ilka had reminded him of it, because for the six months since then, he'd thought of little else. Why should Uncle Ivan have it? Just because he'd taken the old folks away when they became an embarrassment... he was too old now himself to have any use for it, why shouldn't the family – or more particularly himself – get the benefit?

"_Petro, we don't know it even exists. It's just what the family used to say. I'm sure Uncle Ivan would have shared it with the rest of us by now..."_

He didn't believe a word of it. But how stupid had it been to send Ilka's two idiots in search of it?

"Don't tell me 'nothing' – when you couldn't even get him to talk to you!" He glared at the picture on the wall; a family study with Grandpa and Grandma, Ivan and Valentina, any number of relatives he'd long ceased to care about, and himself and his sister as small children sitting on the ground at the front of the group. In the background stood that huge, cumbersome waste of space thing that Ivan was so fond of. On a sudden thought, he barked, "I don't suppose you _thought_ to look inside the damn piano?"

"What piano?" That was Greg – too stupid not to know not to be aggressive with him – he'd learn in the end.

"There was music, Uncle, but no piano... there was a place where one might have stood once upon a time..." Vaz – more brain, less spine.

"And nobody thought to ask a concert pianist who _hasn't got a piano_ where it had gone, before you beat him unconscious?" Silence was the only response. Peter Rawlins stuck his head round the office door and yelled. A few moments later an equally heavy-set young man ambled into the room and stood waiting, eyebrows raised. "I'm sending Andy," the young man's father said flatly, and laughed at the groan from the other end. "Yes. And you'll do as he says. _Find that piano_." He disconnected.

NCISNCISNCIS

Leigh walked slowly over to the piano, and even more slowly, ran her hand over the curve of the side block. "Wow," she said softly. "Wow." She lifted the fall, and ran her fingers over the name, inlaid in brass in gothic script to the right of the music desk, not over or under it. "Where it can be seen whether the desk is up or down," she said. She took in the plain simplicity of the case, in its deep purple-red mahogany. "Unusual... most were black." She was almost speaking to herself. She moved to strike a chord, and stopped. "I can't," she said finally to Tony. "Not while he's... I'll play it another time. Tony, this is the first post-Edwardian Bosendorfer upright I've ever been this close to. Oh, but I've heard of them though." She pulled a smart phone from her smock and tapped away for a while. "Yeah... in 1931, just sixty were built. This is as rare as flying penguins. It's marvellous, Tony."

"I knew he undervalued it to me to make sure I'd take it... but what has he done here? What have I done?"

She sighed. "If it were shipped over to London to one of the big auction houses... maybe $10,000? I really don't know. Maybe more with its romantic history. Whatever someone who wanted a rare Bosy was prepared to pay. "

"D'you think Danilo knew?"

"Ah, well, you know him, I don't. But I'd say... if he didn't, and I told him, he'd still sell it to you for $100 anyway."

She wondered why he looked so lost. _She_ could see why Ivan Wolinsky would do such a thing – why couldn't he? Stoppit... she turned back to the piano, and pressed very lightly on Middle C. As she suspected, the key travelled a couple of millimetres before the weight of the action was taken up. Tony watched her curiously.

"Lost motion," she told him. Comes with age. You try." He did, and felt the same slow response that she had. "Easily fixed. There's a mechanism built in for taking up the slack. They know that felts and leathers will compress with age. It's no problem."

"That's good..." He smiled determinedly. "It's not going anywhere near an auction house. It's for Lucy."

Leigh came to a decision. "I'll be back first thing on Monday morning with my jacks and my trolley; I'll take it to the workshop and we can really look it over there. I'm telling you now, we won't find much wrong. I'll do the best job I possibly can on it. For all three of you. We can haggle about price later, I'll do it anyway."

"Thank you. Thanks very much." He still looked lost. "We... we'd better get going."

Tony thought as he drove, that if it hadn't been for Danilo in the ER at University, he would have happily offered to buy lunch as thanks for her help. But as her phone shrilled, he realised he'd have been thwarted anyway.

"Alfie... what? Why? We're nearly there. I'll explain then. You two had better not have skipped out..." She put her phone away. "My kids. Wanting to know why the van was there and I wasn't."

"Alfie?" Tony asked curiously. "And Clara, right?"

"Right. Alfie's named after Alfred Brendel. Clara's named after Clara Schumann. Two pianists I admire immensely – even though I never heard a note Clara played!"

They pulled up alongside her van, where two young people stood beside their bicycles. The girl, almost as tall as her mother, with a mane of tawny hair, ran forward and flung her arms round Leigh as soon as she stepped out of the car. "Mom... mom... I'm sorry... and Alfie only came because he didn't want me to come by myself, and we'll still be back in time for afternoon classes, and I spoke to Terri who went last year and she said I could borrow all her stuff, and it's gorgeous, as long as she can have it back because her cousin wants to go next year, and I'll just ask for money for my birthday and save it, and find a job, and I'm sorry..."

Tony sketched a wave that was returned with a wry smile, as Leigh tried to soothe her wound-up offspring, put the Mustang into reverse, and drove quietly away.

NCISNCISNCIS

The weekend off never happened; everyone was busy. Gibbs repaired and reinforced Danilo's front door, helped by Kath Wigg when she wasn't driving her team to find something to go on. "I'm a closet classical music lover," she said defiantly. "Whatcha going to do about it?"

Tony righted a chair and picked up scattered sheet music from underneath it. "Nothing, Kath... honest..." He'd said he'd take care of the apartment, and in between trips to the hospital he did.

Tim worked on the electronic security, making useful upgrades for not a huge amount of money, and Sam reported the landlords to be entirely happy about footing the bill.

Abby helped The Metro forensics team. They processed the photos very slowly, since they were trying to preserve them and not damage them further; they then passed them on to Abby, who set herself to repairing them.

Ziva simply enlisted herself into Kath's team and worked with them, in between spells at the hospital guarding Danilo.

Tony was tired, and worried. He'd got to University to find that someone had already phoned to ask if 'Uncle Ivan' had been admitted. Tim had had the forethought to have Danilo admitted under an assumed name, and to ask to be informed of anything suspicious. When Tony had got to see him, he'd already regained consciousness and told the younger agent about the two young men forcing their way in. Tim handed his notes to his friend.

"He wanted to tell me; he was determined to see it through to the end, but don't ask him again, huh? It really distressed him. Said it was like his father all over again."

"OK... I'll let him decide what he wants to talk about, but I'll try to get him to rest."

"I'll go and work out a security rota..." Tim's good-natured face grew dark. "I hope I'm the one here if those freaks turn up."

"Me too. Keep me posted?"

"Sure." McGee walked away with a purposeful swagger to his gait; if he'd looked over his shoulder, he might have caught Tony's proud smile before he'd have had to instantly switch it off.

The SFA skimmed through the notes quickly, Probie had done his usual immaculate job; then stood in the doorway of his neighbour's room for a moment, taking in his condition. There was a drip in his left arm, attached in the elbow vein, as both of Danilo's hands were bandaged. He'd put up a fight. Tony crossed the room quietly, and sat down, and the elderly man rolled his head slowly towards him.

"Hey..."

"An – _Tony_..."

"You remembered." He patted Danilo's arm. "I gotta tell you something. It's not like your father. He was surrounded by vultures, with no-one to help him. You're not alone, and things won't be like that." He lifted the maestro's bandaged hand. "You're a fighter. And we're going to get them."

"Young Tim's been talking."

"He made his report, like a good agent should. You rest now, we're taking care of everything."

"My father was worth stealing from... at least at first... they didn't believe me..."

"Sshh, I know that. They won't bother you again." He paused, and the old man's eyes opened a little wider.

"Out with it, Tony."

"Mr W, you know that piano's worth way more than I paid for it, don't you." Danilo just smiled. "Do you know how much more?"

"No... and it doesn't make any difference. It's yours, Tony. And if you hadn't taken it, they would have wrecked it." The smile faded and the melancholy returned, and every time Tony went back over that weekend, he found it hanging round the old pianist like a shroud. He was worried.

Desperate measures...

It was early Sunday evening, and the medical team were saying that he could go home tomorrow morning, but Danilo really wasn't sure he wanted to... he didn't know if he'd feel the same about the place any more, he didn't want to look at the smashed front door, or see the damage to his precious family albums... He knew his physical condition was contributing to his emotional one, and he felt guilty about being a misery around Tony and everyone else who was trying to help, but he couldn't seem to shift the gloom. The resonances – ha, Danilo, there's a good musical word – with what had happened to his parents, were overwhelming him.

A throaty, pleasant female voice said, "Mr Welensky? Er... Danilo?" He opened his eyes, alarm flaring; nobody was supposed to know he was here. Foolishness... Tony had said he was safe... he looked up to meet the eyes of a smiling, dark haired woman, with a small person sitting on her arm. The baby beamed at him with huge, blue eyes every bit as beautiful as her mother's, and he absolutely couldn't help smiling back. "Danilo, my name's Polly... and this is my daughter, Lucy."

When a run-ragged, exhausted and anxious Special Agent called by an hour later, it was to find Danilo sitting in the chair by his bed, singing songs in Ukrainian to the enraptured little girl on his knee. "She's done it again," he whispered to Polly, remembering a few other memorable times when Lucy had been able to lift a sad spirit just by the impact of her smile. "Maybe she'll be a doctor like her Dad..." His phone shrilled.

NCISNCISNCIS

"No, Boss, we'll be fine. But really, I want you on protection detail. You and Ziva. Please? I'll know he's safe then."

Roy's team had finally come up for air the previous evening. "We found one..." the sergeant had rasped. "One print. Just one... Gregor Choma... got a record in New York City, violent petty criminal. Got an elder brother, no record. And guess what... they're the sons of Ivan Wolinsky's cousin Ilka. Keep it in the family, huh? NYPD are looking for him, no sign yet. His mother hasn't seen him or his brother for days, she thinks they're doing some work for their Uncle Petro. Got a picture of Gregor, trying to find a high school pic or something like, of Vasyl. We'll circulate what we've got. Going home for a sleep, I'll see you in the morning." Tony slept in a chair at the hospital, then went home and changed. He had a piano to shift.

Gibbs agreed to stay at the hospital until Danilo was released, and then take him somewhere, anywhere that wasn't near his apartment. "I think you'll end up building a boat," Tony had said as he introduced them.

NCISNCISNCIS

"Wake up, Gregor... we need to be out of here." It was 7.45am, and the office workers would be arriving soon, to a scene of carelessness and mess, since the brothers had been there all weekend. Andy had arrived late on Friday night, found them living in squalor in the stolen van, looked them up and down in disgust, and got to work. He'd broken into the back of the nearest office block to Uncle Ivan's apartment, bypassing the alarm in a way that neither of his cousins would ever learn, and herded them inside.

"You watch from here until Monday morning, then get out before the staff arrive. If you've got any sense you'll wipe your fingerprints off everything." Not that he cared. "Go back to your van. If Uncle Ivan comes back, you call me."

"Watch all weekend? What about you?"

"You screwed up, you watch. I'm going to find myself a lady." He laughed, and sauntered back to the fast Chevvy he'd arrived in.

They'd watched, venting their spite on the building. Now, glad to be out of the place, they walked back to where they'd left the van, only to shrink back into the shadows as they observed a police recovery vehicle loading it up. "Shit!" Gregor let out a string of obscenities. "What are we going to do now?" He was reaching for his phone, when Vasyl grabbed his arm.

"Don't tell Andy about it. Tell him about _that_!" He pointed across the road, to where Leigh Livingstone's tall van was pulling up outside the apartment block. It was less than ten minutes before their cousin arrived, looking dishevelled but pleased with himself.

NCISNCISNCIS

"That's neat," Tony said. He and McGee had expected to have to use their brawn again, but all they had to do was carry two small, strong scissor-jacks up from the van.

"How d'you think I do it when I haven't got helpful muscle around?" Leigh teased, as she slid the low-profile jacks under the piano, one at each end. "This is the tedious bit when I'm on my own – two turns this end, two turns the other, you have to raise it evenly." They got the idea, and turned in unison, until the jacks had raised the piano enough for Leigh to slide her trolley underneath.

"Yep, neat," Tim agreed.

Lurking behind Andy's Chevrolet, the three New Yorkers watched as the piano was loaded onto the tail-lift, and disappeared into the van. Andy looked at his phone. "Amtrak yards. Either of you know where that is? No? No problem... see, I plan ahead. This is what we'll do..."

About a mile into the journey, on a deserted stretch of road, he kicked the Chevvy down a gear, roared past the van and forced it to a halt. The Troublemint Twins, a couple of hundred yards behind, saw three men emerge from the car and surround the van. As they screeched to a halt and began to run, the driver's door was wrenched open, and Leigh Livingstone, who'd never even seen a gun close up before, found herself looking down the muzzle of one.

"Get out, Bitch!"

Her mouth ignored her brain. "No!"

**AN: Like I said, I'm not feisty like Leigh... my mouth does disengage from my brain, though.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: I had to research the contents of this chapter quite thoroughly, not that I wanted to say anything much about the objects concerned, just wanted to make sure I didn't say the WRONG thing, never having been that close to one. Never likely to either... (sigh...) hint, Mike...**

**To the kind anonymous guest who blecched all over my (theoretical) younger self, so I'm still cleaning up the mess – don't read this chapter, she's still here.**

**A kind friend PMd to advise me not to go too hard on the technical stuff with the innards of a piano, and I do take her point, but there has to be a little bit, so apologies for boring in-speak, I've kept it as brief and plain as possible.**

**Beware, rampant schmaltz at the end!**

Valentina's Lullaby

Chapter 4

Three against two. And one of them appeared to be pointing a gun into the cab... Tony and Tim drew their guns as they ran.

"NCIS! Freeze!"

The man at the van door ignored them, if he heard at all, intent on what he was doing. Vasyl took one look and put his hands up. Tony said, "Stay there and don't move or I'll shoot you," and ran past.

Gregor, closer to Tim, took one look at the agent's light build and made a fearful misjudgement. He went in to the attack, face mean, fists swinging. Tim took one look at _him_ and knew this was the man who'd hurt Mr W, and from that moment on the young lout didn't have a chance. The agent didn't even use the gun that was in his left hand as a club, just used what Gibbs had taught him to ward off the blows, and let off one straight punch with his right to the point of his opponent's chin. He felt immense, unholy satisfaction as he heard the guy's teeth clack together;, his head jerked back, and he staggered to his knees.

Gregor looked up at him, too mad and too stupid not to try again; as he gathered his spinning senses ready to spring, Tim gave an exasperated snort. "I don't have time for this," he said impatiently, rubbing sore knuckles against his jacket, and stuck his gun an inch from the end of the Ukrainian's nose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tony heading past him towards the van; he was clearly in charge of both of these two; just as clearly, his SFA had known he didn't have to tell him. "Get down on the floor, both of you."

_Why did I say that? OMG, why did I say that?_

The guy began to yell things that must have been unprintable by the tone, but Leigh didn't understand a word. As he grabbed at her elbow, she kicked out frantically – if he got a hold of her... She kicked again and again, and finally she felt the steel toecap of her work boot connect with something. Her attacker let out a pained curse; it certainly hurt _her_ toe. A hand grabbed at her ankle, and she kicked out again. Seriously, _seriously_ scared, she screwed her eyes shut, kept her arms wrapped round the steering wheel, and her other foot on the brake, thinking disjointedly that if she took it off the van would creep, and if it hit something she couldn't afford a repair bill and a skiing trip for Clara... oh God, are these guys going to go after my kids too?

Tony got there, grabbed the man's gun-hand and twisted it violently backwards from the wrist, and silenced his yelled obscenity with a punch to the gut. As the guy who'd been manhandling a lady doubled up, the agent sent him all the way down with another hit to the corner of his mouth – where it already bled from his victim's kick.

Leigh realised the shouting had stopped, and heard a rasp that she dimly realised was the sound of her parking brake being applied.

"You can come out now." There was amusement in Tony's voice.

"Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not... not really..."

She opened her eyes, and took in the sight of _three_ Metro muscle-cars drawing up alongside three men lying face-down in the road; two conscious and cuffed, one out to the world. "Is that all of them? Tony... my kids... cycling to school –"

"Which one?" A tall figure climbed out of one car.

"Abbot's..."

"We'll take care of it." The big, terrifying, reassuring Lieutenant Wigg strode over to them, as one of her team gave her the nod that he'd see to it. "So... boys... you've been mixing it again... in our case." She looked at Tim's bleeding knuckles and couldn't keep her face stern. "Ya OK?" Tim just returned the grin she gave him.

Kath walked over to the unconscious man. "Hmmm... Andrii Wolinsky, although he wouldn't thank you for saying so. Calls himself Andy Rawlins, son of Peter, or Petro, both persons of interest to NYPD. They'll be happy to hear from us. We'll have them pick Daddy up on spec before junior alerts him by not reporting in." She paused. "DiNozzo, we think Dad's the instigator in all this, but we need to talk to these three stooges, and a few other things. You got Gibbs looking after Ivan, right? Tell him not to relax until we're sure, and ya need somewhere safe for Miz Livingstone and the piano."

"I got just the place, Kath."

"I bet you have, DiNozzo."

The young plain clothes cop she'd spoken to returned at that moment. "Ma'am, your children were escorted to school by one of our units; there'll be someone around all day, or until we know everything's taken care of. They're fine."

"Thank you." Leigh had always thought herself a fairly capable and unflappable sort, but this was all... just... off the wall.

"We'll take these..." Kath jerked a thumb at the three prone bodies, and threw Tony, and then Tim one of _those _looks that confused Ziva (and now Leigh) so much. "Keep in touch."

"You too." Tony grinned lazily back.

"Eyre and Hooton will escort you to the Navy Yard," she threw over her shoulder as she went back to her car. "Tell Gibbs and Mr W I'll see them later!"

Tony looked closely at the piano expert. "Go sit in the van," he said gently. "Get your breath back. We'll be there in a minute." He walked over to Tim. "I'll go ahead. You go in the van – drive if your hand's up to it. I think Leigh's a bit shook up. To the Yard."

"It's fine, Tony. You think we might have more trouble?"

"Not really. Made a stupid mistake... need to beat myself up in private."

"You did?"

"One of us should have ridden in the van in the first place. I should have anticipated. Could have got her killed."

"Oh... well... Tony, I didn't think of it either. I thought escorting the van would be enough." He thought for a moment. "Look, I honestly didn't think we were a protection detail... I thought we were just piano shifters. You know, 'Right Said Fred?'"

Tony managed a smile. "OK, McOne-each-end-and-steady-as-we-go..." He glanced down at Tim's hand, still dripping blood from two split knuckles, and reached into his pocket. Producing a clean handkerchief, he wrapped it tightly round the younger man's fingers, and tied it firmly. "Go with Leigh anyway, and don't drive. Unless she's still too shaken. I'll be my old obnoxious self by the time we get there." He made a 'home James' gesture with both hands. "Follow me."

Tim went round to the passenger side of the van, and Leigh's eyes fell at once on his bandaged hand. "'S all right," he said cheerfully, "I just don't want to drip all over your nice clean van. You OK to drive?"

"Mmmm..."

"Follow Tony –" he pointed ahead. "We're not going to your place – safer at the Navy Yard."

She nodded a little wanly, and said nothing for a mile or so as she settled in to following the Mustang, and the police vehicle moved smoothly in behind them, then summoned up a smile. "Three of them, taken down by two of you. I'm impressed."

"Actually," Tim laughed, "one of them gave up without a fight."

"I kicked one..." Leigh said hesitantly.

"Good. What's wrong? Shouldn't you sound prouder of that?"

"I'm an idiot. He pointed a gun at me and told me to get out... I was scared rigid."

Tim shook his head. "First time I saw myself staring down a gun barrel I just froze. And that was only during a training exercise at FLETC. It's not nice. I still don't see why you're an idiot."

"I said no. Why did I do that? If I'd been killed, what would my kids do? I've never had a gun pointed at me before..." she swung smoothly in a left turn, following Tony, "I never think of the right thing to say or do about anything until hours later..."

"Tell Tony. He thinks _he's_ an idiot for not riding with you instead of behind. Neither of you did anything wrong."

She pulled a wry face, but didn't argue. A moment later the police car behind flashed a farewell and peeled away, as she followed Tony through the gates to the Navy Yard. He spoke to the guards, who waved them through.

"Watch it here," Tim said. "Tony'll go to the parking lot. You turn right, down that ramp. We're going to the evidence garage. Safest place in DC."

NCISNCISNCIS

The tall, distinguished black man stood regarding the intruder in his evidence garage dubiously. Tony had taken the van back to the parking lot, to leave more room, after they'd unloaded the piano and all Leigh's tools.

"Anything you need from your workshop, Miz Livingstone, we'll either send somebody to get it," he smiled wryly, looking at some of the mysterious things she'd laid out, "if they can identify it, that is. Or we can improvise here. I don't want you returning there until all this is settled." Vance thought of his own family. "If it's not over by the time your children leave school, we'll bring them here."

"You're all right with all that?" Leigh asked anxiously. "It's not even an NCIS case."

"Gibbs' team are interrogating the three they brought in, and he and Agent David seem to have taken on the protection of Mr Wolinsky as their personal charge; so for the moment, we're calling it a joint case with Metro, since the attack on DiNozzo's neighbour means he has a personal interest, and believe me, when that happens, I'd rather _know_ what his team's doing!" He pointed to the monitors at points around the room. "Nobody can get in here without us knowing; you're quite safe. I'll leave you to it." He smiled briefly, and departed.

Leigh stood for a moment, then looked round. There were a couple of tall stools against a wall; she went and fetched one. First and best way to get to know a beast – make it roar. Beethoven. Sonata Pathetique, first movement. Nothing better. She belted the first C minor chord, and almost stopped, the thickness and warmth of the tone hurtling through the garage, wrapping and surrounding her. She blinked and kept going, and by the time she reached the end, her hands shook a little. It was the best piano she'd ever played. Anywhere. There wasn't much wrong with it, she knew before she even stripped it, and as she got more and more into a detailed analysis, she could find nothing unusual that those thugs could have wanted, and gave thanks to all the gods of music that they'd never got their hands on it, to damage it in spite, like the photographs.

Tony rang to say that NYPD had arrested Peter Rawlins; they were a good stage closer to closing the case, and making Mr W's attackers very sorry.

The piano expert worked for an hour or so, and nobody disturbed her, except when one of the mechanics working at the other end of the cavern went for coffee and brought her some back. After she'd drunk it, she was about ready to tackle identifying the sources of one or two irritating rattles. The worst one happened when she struck the F above Middle C, it wasn't loud, but it shouldn't have been there at all. She flicked the bottom of the action to play the note without striking the key, and the rattle wasn't there. Good. Always easier if it was the key.

She eased the F up carefully, and took it over to a work bench, where she'd already spread a canvas. Things didn't bounce, drop on the floor and roll away somewhere with a canvas catcher underneath. She'd learned that the hard way during her apprenticeship; her teacher hadn't warned her to be careful, just grinned as she crawled around until she found the missing spring...

The lead counterweight at the back of the key was very slightly loose; she'd take it out, put a tiny wooden shim in, like a matchstick in a screw hole, replace it and see if that worked. As she tapped the lead disc out with a hammer and punch, she frowned. One disc dropped out and lay on the canvas, but the one she was tapping remained where it was. That never happened... you used one disc, not two together...

Something that had been sandwiched between the two discs glinted beside the piece of lead. Leigh peered at it, and caught her breath sharply. She reached for a pair of magnifying specs, and her heart began to beat faster. She didn't touch, but went and fetched the G key. Shaking it, she could hear nothing, but when she tapped the disc out, the same thing happened. She moved the keys and their discs away, and looked up at the camera, to check what she was doing was being recorded, picked up her phone, steadied her voice, and called Tony.

NCISNCISNCIS

Vasyl had cracked right away; Tony had sent Tim to break Gregor, after the younger agent had confessed to him how he'd felt after he'd hit him. He hoped the brutal young man would register that same look still in Tim's eyes, and be seriously intimidated. Tim had held up his bandaged hand with a smile, and it had worked. Andy was under arrest for assault on a civilian and attempted assault on a federal agent anyway, and was easily tricked into admitting that he'd been sent by his father.

The two were writing up their reports and wondering if it was time to phone Gibbs and tell him Danilo was safe, when Tony's phone rang. "Leigh? What's wrong?" Tim looked up at the tone of his friend's voice.

"_Tony? Can you come down here? Right away?"_

Her voice wasn't as steady as she thought. "Are you OK?"

"_I'm fine. Just get here, OK?" _

By the time they arrived, she'd taken the lead from the E below, with the same result. She beckoned them over, without a word, and just pointed, to the three brilliant-cut, one-carat diamonds that sat side by side on the rough canvas. Nobody said anything; they just stared. Tim took his phone from his pocket, switched on the flashlight, and played it over the gems; they sprang to glorious, white-fired life as if almost eighty years in the dark had been spent waiting for this moment.

"They were jewellers," he murmured. "What better way to hide their wealth than this?"

"But why... why when they fell on hard times, did they not use these?" Leigh wondered.

"Probably too afraid," Tony said sadly.

Tim glanced at the piano. "How many –"

"Eighty-eight," the other two said together.

"Eighty-eight keys, each with one of these," Tony mused, but Leigh shook her head.

"Maybe more," she said softly. She went back and eased out the A key, and they both saw at once that there was an extra lead disc set in, in front of the normal one. "All the As have them; but they don't need extra," she said, and began to ease the discs out. The rear one produced the identical one-carat white diamond; the front one revealed a princess-cut jewel, perhaps two point five carats, with a blue cast to it.

"Breathtaking," Tony said. "I'm feeling all girly."

Both men began to tap numbers on their phones. "Vance," Tim said.

"Ziva," Tony told him.

"Ziva?"

"Remember what she said? Never doubt an Israeli where diamonds are concerned? Abby's machines could tell us, but Ziva can do it in a tenth of the time."

NCISNCISNCIS

Abby took just one diamond to her lab, escorted by Tim, and after a while pronounced it flawless.

Eighty-eight identical diamonds... and seven other larger, varied stones, each one perfect. Ziva flicked an eye over them all and said the same.

The Director arranged security to rival Fort Knox.

Gibbs arrived with Danilo Welensky, bruised and fragile, but eyes shining with excitement.

Abby found some black velvet, and the stones were laid out in all their glory. After a while Ziva said thoughtfully, "Perhaps $1,700,000. Perhaps more, if the individual large stones are auctioned. They are harder to value, but very precious. Maybe $2,000,000, Tony. Why are you looking so pale?"

He didn't answer her directly, but turned to his elderly friend. "Danilo, I _can't_ –"

"Of course you can. If I'd known about this, I'd still have chosen you to take my piano. I knew that you'd know what to do."

And he did.

NCISNCISNCIS

After careful research, almost two million dollars went to charities from UNICEF to individual holocaust victims' families.

A trust fund was set up to take care of Danilo in comfort for the rest of his life; he moved out to a ground-floor apartment in the old farmhouse close to where the Hastings family lived, announcing that he intended to live long enough to be Lucy's first piano teacher.

Tony never told anyone about the five single diamonds he kept back; they were there if ever his team, his _friends_, had need of them.

The beautifully restored Bosendorfer went to Lucy's in time for her birthday. Tony paid Leigh with one pink, cushion cut diamond.

"Tony, you can't –"

"Yes, I can." He handed her a card. "That's the auction house who're ready to sell it for you. You can move your workshop to a nice arty area, like Independence Avenue, where you'll be recognised... Clara can have her ski trip, Alfie can have his racer... and there'll be plenty for the future. No more than you deserve..." He tipped her chin up, and kissed her cheek.

As she drove away from Sandybacks, she sighed. Her long ago decision to follow the loner side of her nature had been because of her children; she wasn't going to subject them to a series of awkward 'uncles', while she looked for the perfect kelloggs cornflakes replacement for their totally unreliable father. She'd held to that decision, and she still would... but for the first time in thirteen years, she knew it was going to hurt. So much... She almost hoped she'd never run into Tony again. _Maybe we should move to California... San Francisco... pianos out there get fried by the heat... need rescuing... Alfie could become a surf dude... _Why fret... he didn't think of her like that anyway. No problem... She blinked her tears back, and accelerated up the on-ramp, back towards the city.

NCISNCISNCIS

Tony gave Polly and Patch the beautiful princess-cut diamond. "For Lucy... for her engagement ring? Or whatever. Don't argue. Princess-cut for my princess. One of them, anyway," he added, kissing Polly's cheek. A few minutes later, Patch's mom, Anne, carried Her Royal Highness's birthday cake in, and Lucy laughed in delight as they sang to her.

"Now, fair lady," Tony said gravely, "I have a special present for you." He carried Lucy to her piano, and sat her on his knee in front of him. She looked up at him expectantly, as he began to play. He'd done his best with the Ukrainian ideas that Danilo had told him; he was embarrassed to show his efforts to put them into English in front of a poetess like Polly, but he wasn't put off. He sang softly to his god-daughter...

'Fly, little singer though the storm is close behind you,

Fly where your heart is, where no danger can find you

Silver wings carry you, like an arrow swift and true,

Safely to your home, safely to your home.'

Lucy chuckled and dozed; played as it always had been on Valentina's piano, Valentina's Lullaby had found a new home.

The End


End file.
